


What to do While Waiting: Spare the Innocent

by HyenaKonrad



Series: Wait to do While Waiting: A Johnlock Tale [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Breif Graphic Depiction of Violence, Depression, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Self-Harm, references to childhood abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-21
Updated: 2013-03-21
Packaged: 2017-12-05 23:06:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/728934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HyenaKonrad/pseuds/HyenaKonrad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock is confronted with the fact that he has committed another failure in his life when another victim is found dead, he finds himself falling prey to the demons of his past; you can't always run from the monsters that hide inside of your head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What to do While Waiting: Spare the Innocent

John would find that helping Sherlock wouldn’t be as simple as he had hoped. Well, he’d always known it would be difficult, but not this difficult. He hadn’t considered his unhealthy methods of coping. He hadn’t considered all unhealthy methods of coping Sherlock employed to get through his rough days. He hadn’t considered his childhood background in its entirety. But most importantly of all, he hadn’t considered Sherlock’s frame of mind when he suffered failure.

Sherlock has failed and blundered truly only once since John has known him, and that was during the battle of wits against Moriarty. Albeit that really wasn’t his fault. The poor old woman just wouldn’t keep her mouth shut, and so suffered the consequences of her folly. And yet…John hadn’t seen Sherlock the rest of that evening. He’d said he needed time to himself to be left with his thoughts, so he could regroup and sift through the evidence again, find a new tactic, find a new method of bringing down Moriarty. But John didn’t really know what was going on behind that door. He’d thought he’d heard screams of anguish in the night, muffled but still lingering in the air. But he’d ignored it. Because surely he hadn’t heard them. He almost wishes he’d gone seeking out the cries.

Sherlock, at the moment, was standing before the board he’d set up in the sitting room, various documents and photos pertaining to the most recent case tacked to it. This killer—well rather psychopath—was very inventive to say the least, and he had Sherlock absolutely stumped. He didn’t actually kill his victims. Rather he left them strapped or harnessed to devices that would kill them after an allotted time; anywhere from 5-10 minutes. In order to be removed from these devices of torment, they would have to do something painful, something truly ghastly that would test physical and mental boundaries. One victim had to remove a key that had been surgically placed behind his eye, which while he was sedated had been removed, and then replaced by the mind behind these terrors. John couldn’t believe someone could conceive such inhumane acts of cruelty, and yet he was baffled. There were a few victims who have managed to escape, and from what has been gathered, if they managed to complete their terrifying task to escape, then they were allowed free without any catch and without contact from their captor, as if they’d never been abducted and forced in these situations in the first place.

“They’re being tested.”

John looked up from his laptop, Sherlock’s hands steepled beneath his chin as he glanced over the list of victims.

“What they all have in common is that they’ve led lives of sin as our criminal mastermind sees it. Mr. Hastings was a well-known drug dealer. Mrs. Smith cheated on her husband with men she met in motels for a short thrill. Sick of monotonous housewife life I suppose. All of them have character flaws that couldn’t be overlooked without punishment as our criminal sees it, and since what they’ve done either aren’t punishable by law or they manage to sneak passed the law, he—as we can assume our criminal is male—feels the need to enact his own form of punishment.”

“So why not kill them?”

“I believe he thinks they can redeem themselves. That if they were to face death intimately, then they would learn the error of their ways. A twisted sense of justice.”

But Sherlock saw this line of thinking to be absolutely delusional. From what he’s learned from his interactions with people throughout his life, people seldom learned the error of their ways. Sometimes there is a momentary change of heart, as people say, but people always seemed to lapse back to their familiar, old ways. People always favored the familiar no matter how detrimental to their life it may be.

“A delusional man with a god complex….”

“Well you better wrap this one up fast then. I man like that on the street Sherlock…I mean Moriarty was bad enough, but this…”

John would hazard to guess that this man was far more dangerous than Moriarty, and that was saying something; John had no fond thoughts of Moriarty. That evening at the pool was seared into his mind, and would always remain there for many reasons. It was a turning point, it was a nightmare, it was a day that John wanted to have never have happened, and yet was thankful to have and would never wish to forget.

Sherlock wouldn’t let on he was having a lot of difficulties in this case. Preventing another victim from being abducted and finding this psychopath would be a challenge. He left no evidence of his whereabouts, and he always left his victims strung up in random locations with no pattern. Sherlock had thought maybe he was using locations around his central base of operation, but this man…the locations were all scattered around London, never within the same neighborhood or sector lines. No, this man was thinking of that. He’d analyzed the recordings he used to communicate with his victims, dictating the rules of their own individual test, hoping for some background noise to give him away. But he must be recording these tapes in a sound dampening room, because there was absolutely zero ambient noise. It was so quiet Sherlock could hear him breathing between pauses in speech. But he wouldn’t give up. Couldn’t give up.

Sherlock spent the remainder of the day going over what he’d gone over John believed to be about a hundred times now. He attempted to urge the detective to bed, only to be swatted away like a gnat. John was no use to Sherlock exhausted, so he went to bed and reminded him if he needed anything, he knew where to find him. And so Sherlock spent the entire night awake, sipping several cups of coffee to keep himself awake through the dark hours, despite the fatigue that ached in his body, despite the exhaustion that was pulling him down. He was stiff, he was tired, but he refused sleep.

The sun was rising, peeking in through the window. John wasn’t surprised to find Sherlock lying on the couch, eyes closed, hands placed beneath his chin as was custom when he was deep in though. And he knew he wasn’t sleeping like he should be, and hadn’t slept at all last night, much to John’s frustration. Because Sherlock was no good to anyone if his body was completely spent and unusable. But before John could give him a right good scolding, Sherlock’s phone started ringing, which only happened during emergencies, given his more preferred method of contact was through text message or e-mail. He snatched his phone off the table quickly, bouncing up to his feet, his exhaustion betraying him when he swayed for a moment, but he was already making for the door, slipping on his shoes before shrugging on his coat and slipping into his scarf.

“Lestrade?”

“Oh god Sherlock, I need you do here now. It’s bad…really bad.”

He rattled off the address before Sherlock hung up the phone, and he was so focused on the case and the moment he hadn’t even realized John tailing behind him. He paid him no mind downstairs at the street, or in the cab (though he must have known he was there seeing as how he left the door open for John to climb in), and when they arrived at the crime scene he dashed out, leaving John to scramble along after him.

“Bloody git. SHERLOCK!”

John raced after him as fast as he could, and almost wished he could do a tailspin out of there; because he wasn’t prepared for this. Before them was a woman. A pregnant woman. A very much dead pregnant woman. She was strapped to a most disturbing device. Two pieces were attached to her breasts, which were more than likely ‘milking’ her at one point during this torment. But slowly they had turned and turned, and tightened, and started tugging further and further away from her body, eventually tearing the flesh from her torso. It would have been a slow and most painful torment. But that wasn’t all. There was a blade hanging about her abdomen, set on an automated arm that cut away at her in intervals; probably every minute. It started at the top, making shallow cuts, but the lower it went, the deeper the cuts made. Her internal organs were spilling out through the ribboned cuts, as was her now dead infant, or what remained of it. She was at full term, probably due to give birth any day. But now…

John couldn’t handle this. Of all the war and carnage he’s been through, this is what did him in. He gagged, going rather pale and faint as he turned away. Lestrade walked briskly over, taking him by the arm and guiding him outside to get some fresh air, and get him out of that grisly place.

“Breathe. Just breathe mate.”

“Lestrade that woman was carrying child. What kind of sick bastard does that?!”

“I wish I could tell you, and I wish I could say we were any closer to catching this monster, but he cleans up any evidence he may leave behind after the abduction and the harnessing of his victims that we have absolutely nothing to go on. I’m not even sure yet where to go with this. Where do we start looking? I mean we looked in some abandoned buildings; flats, warehouses, especially places that have power still strung up, internet capabilities. Nothing. It’s possible he moves location after every few…erm…experiments, but with all of the equipment he must have that’s not every likely.”

John ran a shaking hand through his hair, letting out a heavy sigh before he turned back to the doorway, a tall dark figure proceeding through. Sherlock looked deathly pale, his dark eyes glassed over, but his expression was indiscernible. 

“Sherlock?”

“Gather all the evidence you can Lestrade.”

Not another word was spoken before he hailed another cab and left again for 221B. John was baffled, and so was Lestrade, he gave him a questioning glance.

“Is everything alright with him?”

“Yes, everything’s good. Just good. I’ll just uh, go after him and keep tabs.”

“Yeah, you do that. Keep a close eye on him.”

Little to John’s knowledge, Lestrade knew all too well what Sherlock did and was capable of when he got in dark moods like this. It was in such a mood that he’d come to Scotland Yard requesting to help Lestrade on the first case he’d allowed Sherlock to aid him in. At first he was very hesitant and budged not an inch on the issue seeing as consulting an outside source in such an intimate and private case was illegal and could lose him his bade, but the look Sherlock had given him was a look of hungry desperation, and the look of a man on the edge of his wits, and very possibly something terrible. Maybe Lestrade could bring Sherlock some sort of salvation. Maybe he could save this man he had thought that day, and although he had become the talk amongst his employees, he never regretted it a day. Maybe there was some law against consulting outside sources to aid him in solving cases, and maybe Sherlock legally wasn’t qualified to help, but he was an invaluable part of Lestrade’s team in his opinion, and that would never change, no matter how ill Sherlock became of mind. He only hoped that John could help the falling man in time…

Sherlock arrived to the flat first, trudging up the stairs, and eventually finding himself locked inside of his bedroom. How could he let that monster claim another victim? How could he not find a shred of evidence linking to his whereabouts? How?! Sherlock let loose a blood curdling scream, yanking drawers out from his dresser, tossing them about his room, all contents spilling in doing so. Another victim claimed. Another day this psychopath went free. And it was all Sherlock’s fault. Lestrade came to him in confidence, knowing his capabilities and depending on them, and Sherlock failed. Utterly and completely failed. As he always failed.

Sherlock how could you mess that up?

He pressed his hands against his ears, shrinking away from the scolding of ghosts.

It was so bloody simple! All you had to do was present your thesis and you could have been accepted! What have you gone and done now?!

He was only a boy. He shouldn’t have to worry about such looming responsibilities! He was only a boy…

Come here boy…

Sherlock walked towards his closet now, tugging it open and digging to the back to pull something off of a hook on the wall; a belt. An old, worn belt. The leather was still intact despite it being so old, but it was faded in color due to the years of use. So much use…he could feel the welts on his back. Feel the crack of the leather against his flesh. Feel the hot tears track down his face as his father bore down on him, merciless, cruel…it was all Sherlock ever knew when he failed. The crack of this belt, and feeling so helpless. And so to that he always returned when again he stumbled and failed. Always back to the familiar…

Sherlock moved to sit on his bed, and once he had done so he tugged off his scarf, coat, jacket, and then unbuttoned his shirt to reveal pale skin and a slender body, one that was rather malnourished from the lack of care of self. He looked at the belt in his hands, his hands that shook as the vivid memories came swimming like a storm in his mind.

Oh quit your crying boy! You brought this on yourself!

No, he hadn’t. He tried his hardest. He really had. Sherlock closed his eyes tightly, gripping the belt tightly, then he brought it over his shoulder and whipped his back with a loud crack! He winced, trembled at the stinging pain that made his whole being tremble.

Father please!

He grit his teeth, bringing it over the other shoulder to do the same thing, then he went back over the first shoulder. Two quick whips in succession. Then, he completely lost it. He whipped the belt over his entire torso; front, back, and sides. Some were harsher than others, and he cried out and begged to himself to stop. But he refused to stop. His father didn’t stop, and neither would he. Not until the lesson was well learned.

John had finally arrived at the flat some time later after being left behind at the crime scene by Sherlock. Oh he was going to get an earful. He was having much difficulty controlling his temper. All the long days he’s spent trying to help Sherlock, everything he’s given him, and he up and leaves him there at that gruesome crime scene in the cold, alone. Not a word. It was always the damn case. Probably had a connection made and had to run off to get it sorted before it left his mind.

“Sherlock!”

He couldn’t keep the anger out of his voice as he stormed into the sitting room. Empty. His room? That would be the only other place he would be seeing as he wasn’t messing with any of his current experiments in the dining area. But why would he be in his room? Sherlock was never in there unless he was sleeping or…John felt his heart tighten, anxious worry taking hold of him, fizzing out the anger rather easily. Sherlock has seen many a gruesome crime scene, and they’ve never bothered him before. But he was bothered, that much was for sure, but by what?

“Sherlock? You in there?”

He approached the door, hearing nothing beyond. But he was certain he must be in there. Sherlock didn’t want him to know that though. He held his breath, going completely still, making not a sound. Perhaps if John believed he wasn’t in here, he’d leave. Because this wasn’t John’s problem to deal with, and he couldn’t interfere. But he truly was underestimating John’s level of care for him, and his intuition when it came to these sorts of situations. John was no fool. 

John opened the door slowly, peeking into the room, met with the sight of a topless Sherlock sitting on his bed, torso covered in red welts, cuts, and bruises, belt still gripped tightly in his hands.

“Sherlock what are you—“

“John I ask that you leave at once.”

“Oh as if!”

He lurched forward and snatched the belt from Sherlock’s hands, tossing it to the floor before securing his wrists in his own hands, as if he were restraining the detective from further harming himself. These welts were rather nasty, but they would heal given time. A few of the gashes he’d feel more comfortable if he at least cleaned and patched them up to help prevent any possible spread of infection. This was barbaric…

“I’m going into the bathroom for a moment to get my med kit. You’re going to sit here and sit on your hands, do you understand?”

Sherlock kept his eyes averted, nodding before sliding his hands beneath his thighs. What a silly and childish request, yet in the state he was in, he couldn’t help but comply, obeying as he did his father. John, once feeling assured Sherlock wouldn’t inflict anymore abuse upon himself, he made his way to the bathroom, retrieving his med kit before returning to Sherlock. He let his eyes gloss over the wounds once more, soaking a cloth in antiseptic before dabbing at the openly bleeding gashes. He wouldn’t feel the need to do so if it weren’t for the fact that the method of infliction was a very old belt with god knows what sort of bacteria lingering on it.

“Sherlock I don’t…why would you…why?”

John was having a bit of trouble understanding. Yes, he knew Sherlock had a tendency for self-harm, but as far as he was aware his method of infliction was by razor, as was previously mentioned at hints to scars on the insides of his legs and his recollection of a suicide attempt in his teenage years. So why the belt? This particular belt? Sherlock could have all too easily unfastened the belt from his waist, but he took the time out to grab this belt from where he had it hid. There was a reason…

Sherlock let his eyes glide up lazily to meet John’s eyes, his own haunted by painful memories. Memories that have hollowed the detective out to the cold man he was today.

“Another person has died because I haven’t been able to piece the evidence together John. This psychopath is still out there, and I’m to blame. If I could just…get over this fake illness of mine…”

“Whoa, whoa, hold on there Sherlock!”

John was stunned, mind reeling. Had Sherlock really…did he honestly believe that this was something he was just supposed to get over? That with a simple strength of sheer willpower his depression could be cured? If he was to recover he needed to realize it wasn’t that simple. John was starting to see not even Sherlock completely understood just what was wrong with him. That could cause a few hiccups on his road to recovery, but John was determined to make him realize none of this was his fault. Not a damn bit of this.

“If I could have moved just a little bit faster. If I could have just—“

“Sherlock listen to me.”

John tossed the cloth aside, cradling Sherlock’s face in his hands, forcing him to look John in the eyes. 

“This isn’t—isn’t—your fault. At all. You didn’t kidnap her. You didn’t torment her. You didn’t wish death on her. You didn’t kill her! Lestrade and his men couldn’t stop that bloody lunatic in time either! You’re one man! You can’t do this all by yourself, no matter how brilliant you are. You are not a failure…”

Sherlock didn’t seem to believe him. Doubt was written all over his face, and his eyes were dead and lifeless. John felt his heart sink into the pit of his stomach.

Oh Sherlock…

John wanted to make this man see that he did such wonderful things for Scotland Yard, and for the people whose lives he saved and justice he brought for them with the seemingly impossible cases he solved. He wanted to make him see how he has enhanced John’s life since he happened into it in a coincidental circumstance that brought them together. But most of all, John wanted him to see just how much he valued Sherlock. This infuriating man has snaked his way into his heart, and John was finding it difficult to cope with that knowledge. He didn’t want to acknowledge the more than friendly feelings that were starting blossom within his breast because he hasn’t admitted such feelings for someone of his own sex since…well that was a story he didn’t want to think about now. Sherlock needed him; this was no time for painful reminiscing…

John sat down on the bed beside Sherlock, reaching his hand out to lace his fingers through that curly hair, and he started to pet him, scratching his scalp. Sherlock made a soft sound of approval, eyes closing at the positive attention. He felt a fatigue deep down in his muscles, and what he wanted more than anything, was sleep. But at the same time, he didn’t want John to stop giving him that kind attention. Kindness was something lost on Sherlock, because I was seldom shown to him. He expected cold brutal words, much what he received from Lestrade’s lackeys, or stinging pain inflicted by a cruel hand. Not this…this bliss.

“You should rest.”

“Mmmm…”

Sherlock obeyed, crawling up the bed to rest against the pillows, eyes fluttering, chest heaving with deep, tired breaths. John pulled the covers over the tired man, a soft smile passing over his face before he got up, making to leave.

“Jhnnnn…”

The sound was hard to make it, but John was almost certain that Sherlock had called for him against the pillow.

“Yes?”

Sherlock lifted his head for a moment, eyes almost pleading.

“Stay…”

The request was simple, but monumentous. Sherlock was acknowledging what he wanted, and acknowledging that he wasn’t just an emotionless machine. He wanted someone. He needed someone! Even a man so damaged by emotional betrayal could still cling on to the hope that someone in the world wouldn’t betray him, and that gave him hope that Sherlock could still come back from all the pain he suffered in his lie. John moved to sit on the bed again, sitting with his back resting against the head board. He resumed petting Sherlock’s head, that tired face softening with relief before his eyes closed and he drifted to sleep.

John let his eyes wander over that abused body of Sherlock’s, and saw a man who believed he needed to be punished. He saw a man who didn’t believe he was innocent. Sherlock took so much blame of the nasty things of the world upon himself, and that reflected in his state of mind and state of physical being. Sherlock thought he was guilty for all of the wrongs that occurred around him, because someone had to be blamed for the bad things that happened in the world. It had been drilled in his head for so long, that he gave in to the belief that it all must be his fault. Well John knew one thing for certain, even if Sherlock didn’t. Sherlock was an innocent man, and for all of his flaws and rough edges, he was a good man.

A good man John was coming to love, and would move the heavens to finally give the life of happiness and inner peace that he earned long ago from so many years of suffering. If the innocent weren’t spared, then there simply was no hope left in the world for bright futures…


End file.
